


Sto vicino a te

by siberianchan



Series: Sing for me [4]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: F/F, Gen, Historical AU, Mention of Viktor Nikiforov as dead, Opera AU, Side Story, Sing for me, have I mentioned recently how much I like these girls?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-21 22:07:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14294490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siberianchan/pseuds/siberianchan
Summary: A side story for "Sing for me" focussed on Mila and Sara, set in 1846. Sara is at a point in her life and career where she has no particular clue what to do. Also, her director is Richard Wagner. Also she's pathetically smitten with her understudy. Life could be better. And thankfully it does.





	Sto vicino a te

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MatchaMochi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MatchaMochi/gifts).



> Hey everyone!  
> So chapter 27 saw Mila and Sara fulfilling my lifelong fantasy of having the chance to walk away from a terrible situation with your head held high, prospects of a great future and the knowledge that you screwed over the person who made you miserable in the first place. I am a very petty person. Only downside is that they are now out of the story and I needed to cheer myself up and thankfully MatchaMochi asked for an extra about these two, so I was even happier than usual to oblige.

Sto vicino a te

In life, Viktor, wonderful, energetic, dramatic idiot that he had been, had always loved bright, colourful flowers; after performances his dressing room had overflown with bouquets and wreaths.

Sara thought it only fitting to bring him colourful flowers to his grave that was tucked away in a far-off corner of the cemetery St. Elias.

“Looks awful,” Johannes observed and put a bouquet of pale yellow and deep purple irises down next to Sara's pink and yellow roses. “I bet if he could have he would have designed something large, with many, many sweeping lines and arches.”

“Don't forget the angels,” Sara sighed. “He would have put up so, so many little angels.”

Johannes laughed and ten bent over to gently pat the small headstone that only read “Viktor Nikiforov, 25thof December 1821 - 2nd of September 1845”.

“Probably one or two with Yuri's face on them.”

Sara grinned. “Poor boy. Always seeing himself whenever he is visiting the grave.”

“See, exactly,” Johannes laughed, “he would have loved that.”

They stood there a while, looking down on the grave in companionable silence, before Johannes glanced at his pocket watch. “I think we should go. God knows what that pompous hoopoe will say if we are late.”

“Urgh,” Sara muttered. She took the time to pat Viktor’s headstone a gentle goodbye before they turned around and headed away.

From the cemetery it was a brisk walk of maybe twenty minutes until they reached the plaza before the theatre.

“Sara! Mr. Erhardt!”

Sara’s heart skipped a beat as she turned around.

Mila walked up to them, all brisk, straightforward steps and eager smile.

“There you are, thank goodness! I feared I was running late, but with you two...”

Oh Mila, sweet, sweet Mila who was Sara's understudy and bright and talented and smart and caused Sara way too many sleepless nights with her smile and her voice and her soft red hair and the way she would attentively listen to whatever Sara had to tell her about her singing.

Sometimes Sara wondered in which circle of hell Viktor might have ended up. Was he being punished for his suicide or was he a sinner in the flesh, punished for wanton lust? If it was the latter, then maybe one day he and Sara would cross paths again once her life on earth had ended.

Hopefully that day was still a long way off though. How terrible to leave a world that had Mila Babitch in it.

She smiled at her, probably far too brightly. “Afraid of running late?”

“My landlady is a bitch,” Mila offered for an explanation.

“Oh dear, what has she done, produced a litter of puppies?” Erhardt asked dryly.

“If only,” Mila sighed, “Puppies are cute, at least. Miss Babitch,” she went on, affecting a rather shrill voice that almost managed to make Sara's ears bleed. “Miss Babitch, why are you always back here so late, what are you doing all night?! Be aware that I do not tolerate indecent behaviour in my tenants, you understand?!”

“Oh God, dear!” Erhardt cried, “Does she even know what you are doing for a living?”

“You mean the fifty men I sleep with per night?” Mila asked dryly. “Or their wives that I go through on weekends?”

Oh, sometimes, whenever Mila said something like that Sara was sorely tempted to foster a little hope, just for a bit, just until she saw how the male chorus singers looked at her and how she returned their gazes with a delighted, noncommittal, but still strangely edgy smile. Then her hopes quickly withered and died again, without ever taking the affection at its core with them.

Mila said these things quite often. So Sara suffered quite often.

She sighed. “Let's go now, yes? I got a feeling that Mr. Wagner will be at chorus rehearsal too.”

She was right, of course. Mr. Wagner was already there, watching on as the chorus rehearsal went along under his attentive gaze. That was not terribly unusual; Mr. Wagner liked to watch the chorus rehearsals, usually not out of some vested interest in what they were doing or whether there were any new talents to be found in the ranks, but in order to annoy Mr. Feltsman, who had yet to explode at him, but who was always rather close to it, if Sara was reading the signs correctly.

“I suppose you should go through _Lasst doch hören, lasst doch hören!_  rather than _Lustig zum Tanze, jubelt, springet_ now, don't you think so too, Mr. Feltsman?” he was now asking with a smile.

Yakov Feltsman did not look too impressed. Or happy. Or anything.

He just sighed. “Need to rehearse. Was not good yesterday. Needs work. Needs more work than other parts. That is why.”

“Well, why does it need work? I would have thought that you picked more professional singers for your chorus.”

Mr. Feltsman huffed. “Singers are professional,” he said, “but are human. Practise always needed. Makes perfect. You want imperfect _Zar und Zimmermann_? No? We rehearse.”

And with a huff he turned around and focussed his attention back on his singers.

Mila, Sara noticed from her vantage point in the wings, was grinning and then happily focussed back on singing as Yakov Feltsman gave the sign.

Chorus rehearsal ended and the soloists had their turn. Sara and Erhardt sang their lover's duet, she went through one of her arias and listened to Yuri working through his parts and watched how Richard Wagner took him aside, talking to him in a low voice. She watched how Yuri listened to him quite intently, with a slight smile on his lips that made Sara's stomach churn quite a bit and in a fashion that it would not have done if Viktor was still alive. Viktor had always been a strong, blessed influence on the boy, counterbalancing the impression Wagner tended to leave on Yuri's malleable mind, making sure only the actual, practical, professional advice stuck in his mind.

That was gone now and it sickened Sara.

But it didn't sicken her enough to spoil her appetite. It was noon, lunch time and Sara hadn't had eaten since very early today.

She turned around to head out, in order to get something to eat, maybe try to catch Mila.

“Ah, Sara my dear!”

As if she ever had been his dear.

Sara sighed deeply and turned around to meet Richard Wagner's gaze as he walked up to her with rather hurried steps.

“Mr. Wagner. Is there anything else you found lacking about my singing today?” she asked.

Mr. Wagner kept his face rather neutral, which was a welcome change to the usual expression of slight, thinly veiled disgust he had for her, her Italian descent, her slightly darker skin and her first name.

So apparently it was something he wanted her to agree on. How funny. “Oh no, my dear, not at all. You are an example to everyone, talented and hardworking and open to criticism. No, no, you were very fine today, aside of the little things I said before, but you will take care of that, I am positive. No, no.”

Sara forced a smile. “What can I do for you then?”

“Well, it is about your contract. How long was it running again, three years?”

“Yes. Three,” Sara confirmed, mouth suddenly dry. It was about that, then?

“Well, your contract will run out in three months. That poses the question what you will do. Can I consider you for the next year?”

“Would you want to?” she asked.

Mr. Wagner was silent for a moment. Figured, Sara thought. Mr. Wagner would not want her to stay. He also didn't really want her to leave.

Sara Crispino brought in the audience. Sara Crispino brought in the money. Richard Wagner knew that. And Richard Wagner hated it.

“Well, of course I would very much appreciate if you would decide to stay and extend your contract.”

But he was, at the end of the day, a business man. Sara could appreciate that, at the very least.

Just that she didn't know. She would love to stay. Dresden had so much to offer, the theatre could bring her forward so much, but...

But Richard Wagner.

But Viktor.

But...

She sighed. “I have not decided yet. It hasn't crossed my mind so far, so...”

“Of course.” Mr. Wagner forced his smile even more. “Take your time, my dear girl.”

Sara never was his dear girl. She really, really, really didn't want to be.

“Just, remember that we have operas to consider for next season. I would like to know in due time whether to consider you in them or not.”

“Of course.” Sara nodded and her stomach churned once more. “I won't consider for long.”

“Thank you, my dear. I will await your response.”

Oh dear. Sara sighed once more and now headed on and away.

“You should stay.”

Please, world, please. All she wanted was to grab a bite.

She turned around to Yuri next to her and smiled at him. “Should I now?”

The boy shrugged. “Yeah, I mean, it's a good opportunity, right? If he asks you about it, he wants you to stay, rather than just let your contract run out.”

“You think so?” Sara asked, still suppressing the wave of nausea that was slowly creeping over her.

“Sure. I mean, he knows you're good and you heard him just now.”

“So did you. Eavesdropping is not cute, you'll never get a girlfriend like that.”

Yuri made a face. “Who'd want that?”

Sara snorted. She was tempted to reply, ‘Me, for example’, but that would have been too much for the boy's tender, innocent, underdeveloped, childish mind. “So, you’re saying I should stay?”

“Dresden is one of the bigger theatres around here,” Yuri shrugged. “You could go to Leipzig, of course and Weimar and Frankfurt are decent too, but otherwise...”

“Berlin would be nice,” Sara thought out loud, her hunger non-existent for the moment. “Or Hamburg.”

Yuri shook his head. “That's a step down, if you ask me. Both have too many theatres for any of them to be of a decent size or quality. If Mr. Wagner wants you to stay here, do it. Would be stupid not to.”

Again Sara felt a tinge of nausea rushing through her.

Wagner had killed Viktor.

Well, he hadn't himself, Sara had to admit that much, but without him Viktor would not have been driven so far. He would have waited until the buzz around him and his unfortunate involvement in certain things had died down, he would have relied a little more on Sara and Erhardt and Mr. Feltsman, they would have kept him in check, it would have been alright.

Instead...

She swallowed. “I don't know whether I really am the sort of person Mr. Wagner would want around. Or even alive.”

It hit home.

Yuri shot her a dark, almost wounded look and then muttered, “Suit yourself then,” before turning around and stomping off.

Sara sighed, which she did a lot recently she realized, but did she not have good reason to?”

“He's right, tough.”

Sara flinched at Mila's voice and her closeness to her as she turned around. “Oh... eavesdropping seems to be quite en vogue recently.”

Mila smiled apologetically. “Sorry, I didn't mean to. I was just waiting to ask if you want to get lunch with me and Elise, but then Mr. Wagner came and then Yuri came and...”

(And the only one who did not come, of course, was Sara.)

“I think I am not hungry,” Sara said. “Go on.”

Mila's face fell a little.

“We're still engaged for dinner, right?” Sara quickly added. “People will think I've laid some claims on your undivided company if we have lunch and dinner together in one day.”

“So?” Mila grumbled.

Truth was that Sara wasn't particularly keen on spending time with Elisa Matzen, a decent chorus singer who considered herself a lot more talented than she actually was and Sara a good deal less so. However, for some reason Mila was on pleasant speaking terms with her, so apparently she did possess a few more pleasant qualities, although Sara had better things to do with her time than learning what these might be.

“So dinner tonight,” she said.

Mila nodded. “Alright. But promise that you eat something in the meantime, yes? You can't go on the whole afternoon and evening – on stage to boot – without eating, you'll faint.”

She was so sweet, Sara's heart was in danger of melting. “Alright, I promise I'll grab a bite sometime today.”

“Soon.”

“I am not really hungry though.”

“How many times have you denied me the chance to not eat, declaring that appetite doesn't matter, but making sure that one is nourished and strengthened for work, however, does?” Mila said. “At least get an apple or something.”

Oh, she was so sweet. Sara sighed inwardly. “I will, I promise. And you will not keep Elise waiting for longer, yes?”

“Yes. See you tonight.”

“I'm looking forward to it.” That was out faster than Sara would have liked.

Mila smiled at her. “Me too.”

Oh, how could someone be real and have such a bright smile? It just wasn't fair.

Dinner had become their routine after Mila's first week as Sara's understudy when they had begun with it to discuss what Mila thought she could improve on and how to do so. After a performance they would go out and get something nice to eat, usually at either an inn that specialised in potato dishes Mila had already proclaimed her undying, everlasting love for or something that went more along the lines of an osteria with loads and loads of pasta, tomatoes and zucchini. The food they offered were more of a German attempt at Sicilian cooking, rather than dishes from Napoli, but it was still a lot closer to the dishes Sara had grown up with than anything else she had ever eaten during her time here and it wasn't half bad, even though the mistress of the house made way too liberal use of lovage for Sara's taste.

After dinner they would often enough head over to Sara's lodgings. Being the celebrated, beloved prima donna of the Royal Court theatre had its perks, most of them being financial in nature; thus, unsurprisingly, Sara could afford a rather nice, relatively large flat close to the theatre square rather than being forced to reside in a boarding house.

It was a cozy place to have a few glasses of wine together and chat and laugh and be quiet together and it was practical, just in case it was getting too late or they were getting too drunk for Mila to make it back to her boarding house safely.

So far this had never happened, but Sara was always prepared for it, pathetic, silly thing that she was.

So silly.

With that eternal, silent sigh, she went on about her day, prepared for her performance, sang and then quickly changed back into her dress, waited for Mila and together they headed out, bidding a good night to several of their colleagues.

“Have you seen Andreas, how he was making eyes at you?” she asked as they walked over the street.

Mila chuckled. “Please. He clearly was staring at you. Or us both, but...” She shrugged as they entered the little osteria where they were greeted by a server and led to a table.

“I really don't think he was looking so much at me,” Sara grumbled and ran a hand over her hair, just so it wouldn't flit about nervously.

“Oh, really.” Mila shook her head, without ever taking her eyes off her. “Why wouldn't he?”

“I am a little too tan and dark haired for most Germans to consider classically beautiful, I suppose,” Sara said. “And I don't care for bleaching ointments, so...”

“I like your tan.”

What?

Sara swallowed and looked down on her plate. “It's not entirely fashionable, though.”

“So? It looks nice. Vibrant.”

“Thank you.” Sara quickly took a fork full of her risotto, hopefully without appearing too hungry. Mila was still watching her.

One was allowed hope, right? Sara was allowed to wish and hope and dream, right? As long as she was aware that would be it, that her wishes and hopes and dreams would remain just that, then...

She sighed even more.

“What's the matter, Sara?” Mila asked reaching over the table for her hand.

She definitely didn't know what she was doing to her or she would not be so casual and free and generous with her touch.

Sara forced herself to keep her hand quiet. “It is really nothing.”

“Was the day too long?”

“I suppose so.”

Sara gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “In that case I'd say we finish and head home for some drink?”

Home.

Mila was referring to Sara's flat as home and she did it so casually, so naturally...

Now Sara returned the gesture. “Yes, let's head back home.”

They waved for the server, paid up and then headed back to Sara's flat, arm in arm, like the good, close friends they were. Good, close friends, Sara told herself as she unlocked the door and slipped out of her boots. Good, close friends.

Mila next to her shrugged off her cape and then helped Sara out of hers. “Shall I get the glasses?”

“That would be very dear of you.”

Mila smiled and disappeared in the kitchen while Sara headed first to her bedroom, finally getting out of her dress and corset and exchanging her crinoline and her two layered chemises for one simple shift and skirt, before heading back to her small drawing room that doubled as salon, living room and occasionally dining room as well, when she was entertaining a patron.

She quickly put the pillows on the chaise lounge in order and then stretched. “Urgh. The day was definitely too long,” she sighed as Mila came in, two goblets of thick, slightly blurry glass in her hands, stems fat and green and decorated with a cheap vine pattern while the container were full-bellied and showed 0ff squite a few nicely molded grapes.

They were so wonderfully ugly and they were the first thing Sara had bought in Dresden just for fun, just for herself.

And the pale green looked lovely in Mila’s pale hands and next to her flaming her.

Sara grabbed a bottle of white wine from the cabinet behind her and expertly pried the cork out.

Mila watched her closely as she worked. “I'll never understand how you can do that so easily.”

Sara laughed. “Practise. I'm Italian after all, we learn that the moment we can grab things, so our mothers won't have to open the wine bottles for us as we are weaned from their breasts.” She inspected the label of her find. One from Meißen, good. From 1836. Good vintage, or so Sara had been told. Also good.

Hopefully not too sweet.

Mila put the goblets on the floor between them and took the bottle out of Sara's hands to pour them their libation of the day that was wrapped up like this.

She took one of the goblets and raised it. “Well, here's to...” She paused.

“To Katharina finally sleeping her way up to a solo part?” Sara suggested.

“Really?”

“Yepp.”

Mila paused for a moment. “Well, it's one way to take care of your career, I suppose. Alright. Let's drink to that.”

With a soft, deep clink they brought their glasses together and then to their lips.

The wine was delicious, crisp and sharp on her tongue and with a hint of fresh apple lingering in her mouth long after she had swallowed.

“But, like...” Mila took yet another sip and then reached behind her head to pull out a few hair pins.

Sara watched in fascination as her hair – silk, beaten and polished copper, velvet, Mila's hair – fell over her shoulders and back, lacing itself in gentle, slightly unruly curls around her.

Mila ran a hand through it. “Katharina didn't, right? Not really.”

“That's what she said at least. That it helps a lot to be really, really nice to your lead director.” Sara took a deep sip. “I don't know whether things are different here, but in Napoli this translates to I got the role because I let the right people fondle me and stick body parts inside me.”

“Ew.” Shuddering Mila took another sip. “Ew, that's a disgusting way to phrase it.”

“I know, but that way I don't have to think about the act itself, which I consider far more disgusting.”

Mila's eyes darted up and down on her. “Really?”

Too much?

Sara swallowed inwardly. Definitely too much. “Well, I mean... it should be between married people, right, otherwise...”

“That sounds far too protestant to be what you think,” Mila commented dryly. “But yes, the image of anyone lifting her skirts for Wagner – ew.” She shuddered again. “I hate to say that and use this wine for it, but I need to flush that image out of my head.”

“You're not alone in that and thankfully I have a little more than just one bottle of this one,” Sara sighed for what felt like the hundredth time that day and poured them both a new round of wine. “And flushing your head clean is always more fun with good wine.” For emphasis she herself took a deep sip. “Well, I at least have one thing to not worry about. Wagner dislikes me too much as that lifting my skirts would improve my standing in his grace, so I don't even have to toy with the thought.”

“Would you, though?” Mila asked and Sara choked on her wine.

“Wha... what – ew, no! No!”

Mila chuckled. “Wouldn't have thought so. Before you ask, no, I don't care about improving my chances like that either. I'd prefer getting roles based on my singing and my acting.”

“Good call. Worked for me and is still working.” Sara shrugged. “I mean, as much as Wagner doesn't like me, he still gives me one lead role after another.”

“You draw the audience.”

God, that wine was good. Sara let another sip run over her tongue. “At least they know quality when they hear it, unlike our dear, beloved head director who only casts me for that exact reason, not because he thinks I deserve that role in any way.” She ran a hand over her brow. “It's so frustrating, you know, I... urgh.”

She felt Mila's hand on the back of her head, running over her hair.

“It is that bad?”

She shrugged. "I knew I am a lot better than he says l am. Always had to be. Sara is not exactly the most Christian of names.”

Mila's hand remained in her hair. “ I didn't know you are Jewish.”

“I am not. Grandparents on both sides came from Jewish families, but converted when they were young,” Sara explained quickly, maybe too quickly and then, even more too quickly, she asked, “Is it of any importance?”

“Not to me,” Mila said and Sara's heart sang and cheered at this.

“Jewish names still have some tradition in our family,” she said. “Mostly for girls, though. My twin brother was baptized with the perfectly fine, perfectly regular Italian name Michele. Go figure.”

“Tradition has always been coined female, I suppose,” Mila said. “Maybe that's it.”

“Maybe.” Sara shrugged. “But having a Jewish name certainly didn't help my standing with Wagner and... it's so exhausting and frustrating and...urgh.” Another sip of wine. “Basically, I'd really like to feel respected, valued and appreciated and while money does help with that it's not everything. So, honestly, I am not sure if I want to stay here or if I should just try my luck elsewhere.”

“I'd be glad,” Mila said.

Sara very consciously decided to not take it the best way she could. Instead she smiled. “I can imagine. You are good. Lovely, sweet voice, much volume and you have a great stage presence. People will love you once you got your fist few solo roles.” And she couldn't help it. Mila's hair looked so soft in the light of the oil lamp.

And it was just as soft under Sara's fingers.

Mila closed her eyes. “You know, I always thought for a prima donna it was a requisite to be mean spirited and competitive, but I think the one thing you don't have is one mean bone.”

“Well, why should I?” Sara asked, “I want to sing. Drama only distracts from that. And the more talented singers we have around us, the better we are ourselves.”

Mila's head leaned against her shoulder, very distractingly so.

Sara took a deep breath. “Not to mention that my leave would open up a chance for you. You deserve it.”

“Then I'll get my chance with you around as well,” Mila declared, leaning even closer and Sara's heart began to flutter. “I want to have my chance with you around.”

“What?”

Mila's cheek against her shoulders was very, very warm. “You know, if you really want to leave, go, I shouldn't ask you to stay and I won't, but...” She took a deep, heaving breath. “But... but...” She fell silent.

Sara's heart began to race.

“But... but I would like to continue seeing you, I want to talk to you and, and... and...” Mila swallowed and now she was shaking, just a little. “And I have no idea how to describe that, the closest thing would be to say I love you, but-”

Sara leaned over, brushing her lips against Mila's cheek and she felt her turning around to her and shiver a little as she breathed out and against Sara's lips and their hands brushed against each other and their fingers interlaced.

Sara pressed another kiss on her lips. “Wouldn't have thought.”

“I noticed,” Mila whispered. “I uh... I had to get used to that thought too, a little, and then pray you'd either never find out or you'd... well, I wondered why you haven't had any affairs with your sponsors and...” She sighed deeply and wrapped her arm around Sara's shoulders.

Sara breathed in deeply and for a while they remained so, leaning close together, fingers running through hair and over skin and sometimes kissing.

She couldn't resist the temptation to press a kiss behind Mila's ear and then another one on her soft, pale neck – there was a whiff of perfume and sweat here – and Mila leaned in, almost melted against her.

“And now?” Mila asked a while later against the skin of Sara's neck.

“It's pretty late,” Sara sighed and let her hand rest on the small of Mila's back. “Either you should go or you stay and...”

Mila gave her a soft kiss. “If it's late I'd suggest we go to bed?”

Oh dear, Sara's stomach fluttered at the thought. “Alright.”

They emptied their glasses and then got up, leaving bottle and glasses where they were and Sara didn't even think about offering to prepare the chaise lounge as a guest bed, rather than having Mila following her to the bedroom.

She handed Mila a nightgown and – in a sudden fit of modesty – turned her back to her as they undressed and then slipped under the blankets, hands and bodies quickly finding each other again and Mila fitted so perfectly in her arms and against her chest.

That would be it, Sara told herself, that would be it, it was already more than she had ever hoped for.

Anything else would come later.

Just that in the end it was Mila's hand grasping for hers, asking for direction and Sara had never been one to say no to good things. She certainly would not say no to Mila.

Of course that meant that she would say yes to a few other things as well.

And so, with a sigh, the next day after rehearsal she pulled back her shoulders, took a deep breath and then turned to Richard Wagner.

She probably should have this kind of talk in his office, Sara thought, but that would have meant spending more than five minutes alone with him.

“Mr. Wagner, I made up my mind, I suppose,” she said the moment the man in question was busy rushing past her.

His walk came to an abrupt halt and he turned around to her. “Yes, my dear?”

She still wasn't his dear, Sara grumbled to herself. But now she had to bear it, she had to take it, she was not allowed to snap.

“I have a few conditions, but I am of a mind to continue my contract,” she said, very aware how other singers where coming closer, having taken notice of her. Well, good. Would have been a pity if her loud talking would have been for nothing.

She lifted her chin. “First and foremost I demand a raise.”

Wagner blinked.

Well, he better should. Sara had always been quite humble about her pay, fearing to be seen as the greedy, greedy, oh so greedy Jew her name suggested her to be.

Mr. Wagner swallowed. “What?”

“I think 100 Marks per annum more would be sufficient?” she smiled and watched him gasp.

“Such a sum,” he finally said, “Well, I... I will have to talk that through with His Majesty's treasurer.”

“Then I can await your agreement tomorrow?” Sara grinned. “If need be I would also agree to go down to 90 Marks rather than 100.”

“I...”

“I think his Majesty will like to hear me in _Cosi fan tutte_ , so he will very likely agree to this.” Sara smiled brightly. “You said yourself he suggested it for the next season.”

“Well...”

Sara smiled even more cheerfully. “Thank you then. We'll speak tomorrow about the few other conditions, yes?” With that she turned around and went away, with light, light, so light steps that grew even lighter when Mila came to her, linking arms and being so close and Sara wanted to kiss her and never let her go again and no, she wouldn't, she wouldn't.

“A hundred marks?” Mila asked, smiling.

Sara shrugged. “Well, for now you can cover the groveries groceries and the oil and I'll cover the lion's share of the rent, what would you say?”

And thankfully Mila said nothing. She just squeezed Sara's hand as they walked along.

Together.

  
  


 

**Author's Note:**

> And one day I'll get around to research Milan in the late 1840s and write a bit about Sara fainting at the sight of her buddy still alive and well.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and see you soon. :)


End file.
